


Sweet Dreams

by Bloodnok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous Powers AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pampering, Sex Work, Sugar-like dynamics, Trans Elias Bouchard, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans-related anxiety, fatphobia - brief mention, transphobia (internalised)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodnok/pseuds/Bloodnok
Summary: Martin Blackwood is used to being paid for sex and faux companionship. But when Simon Fairchild throws him into the path of Elias Bouchard, who is having... trouble dealing with the absence of his husband, will Martin be able to keep himself from becoming emotionally involved?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	1. First Impressions

One of Martin’s oldest clients first suggested Elias to him. Simon’s tastes were always a little more out there than Martin preferred, so at first he dithered. Eventually Simon paid for an evening of Martin’s company just so he could ‘introduce’ the two of them. At the annual fundraising dinner for Elias’s Institute. Where he promptly vanished into thin air, leaving Martin alone among the throng of Elias’s patrons. Which naturally, he abhored enough that here he was, in a side corridor just near enough the actual party that if someone happened upon him he could claim to be just on his way back.

The roar of the crowd had faded to a pleasant background hubbub and this corridor was cool and dark, a welcome contrast to the main room, with its overwhelming rush of light and heat. Martin leant against the wall, threw his head back and sighed emphatically. It was one of those nights.

Someone cleared their throat. Martin looked up into the bright eyes of Elias Bouchard. He was holding two flutes of champagne and wearing a knowing smile. “Martin, isn’t it? Simon brought you to that ghastly party he threw for the grand opening of his theme park.” Martin nodded his head shyly, trying to hide his flash of irritation at being _remembered_ from one of those events, where he was meant to be nothing more but a scandalously young accessory for Simon.

Elias offered him a glass of champagne. “You look like you need it,” he murmured, stepping closer, “Simon has that effect on people. He’s like a small child running up and pushing people off into the deep end of the pool before they’re ready.”

Martin snorted. That did sound like the Simon he knew. Elias settled against the wall opposite, “Do you know, he offered me a bribe to take you home tonight?” 

“So we’re both being paid.”

“Yes, though in my case it’s merely an increase to his annual donations to the Institute so I suspect I’m getting rather more than you are.”

Martin rolled his eyes and took a swig of his drink. “Why’s Simon so concerned anyway? You’re a handsome man - “

“- Thank you - “ Elias murmured into his glass.

“-And I’m hardly unique. There are plenty of ways you could find company if you wanted it. What’s it to him?”

Elias paused, watching Martin’s face for a few long, careful moments. Eventually he spoke; “My husband travels often for his work and is away at months at a time. I cope ... _poorly_ with the separation. It’s caused tension in the past and I’m sure Simon is just trying to ensure the fallout doesn’t spread to our entire circle.” He sighed, a little dramatically and drained his glass. “It certainly has in the past.”

“What’s ‘poorly’?” Martin asked. Missing your husband didn’t seem like a problem he could help much with, except for one _particular_ aspect.

“I get lonely,” Elias replied simply, “Lonely and disconsolate. It affects my sleep usually, and Simon says I’ve been looking more tired recently. The interfering nuisance obviously decided to take matters into his own hands,” he gestured at Martin tiredly, “Not that he did a bad job, mind you.”

“So you have trouble sleeping when you’re alone? What did you do before you met your husband?” Martin filed the knowledge that he wasn’t a ‘bad job’ for later. 

Elias’s smile was sardonic now. “I used to get high, but that’s not something the Head of an Institute can be seen to do, so I cleaned up my act. I do have to mind my reputation these days.”

“So, you’re going to pay a much younger man for sex instead.” Martin noticed the slight twitch at the ‘much younger’ - it _was_ a little unkind. Simon might have been an unnaturally randy octogenarian but Elias was a well preserved 50 something and Martin was only a few years south of being a respectable dating candidate. Apart from the sex work thing.

“No,” Elias said finally, as if he was only just now deciding it, “I’m going to pay you to sleep with me - if you agree. For company. The sex, if it happens, will have to be its own reward.”

“Oh.” Martin had never been so thankful for Simon’s repeated assurances that Martin’s tendency to blush and/or squeak when embarrassed was _cute_ , before. Sure it was a useful veneer of innocence that belied his sordid past, but it was hard to look _alluring_ , red as he was right now. Elias’s soft smirk deepened into something self-satisfied for just a second.

“Now, I can’t be seen to leave the party early, unless I want Simon telling everyone about it for the next six months.” Elias straightened and tugged his jacket down into place. (It had been maybe half an inch off.) “You can come back with me if you like or you could wait in my office…” Martin took the arm Elias offered and let himself be led back into the fray. He wasn’t much for socialising on his own terms, but making a date look smart, tasteful, desirable? Easy as pie. 

Elias and Martin stayed until the party ran out of momentum, making polite farewells to straggling guests and leaving the staff to take care of the clean-up. They only made it back to Elias’ flat in the wee hours of the morning after sharing one of the quiet, awkward cab rides that Martin was used to in his line of work.

Elias’s flat was dark like his Insitute, but modern and expansive in place of ancient and cramped. Martin paused in the unlit kitchen, leaning against the table as Elias made his way through to the bedroom, shedding his suit jacket on a chair as he passed.

“I could um, take the sofa?” Martin offered, noting its large and comfortable bulk as he made his way through to hover awkwardly in the doorway. Elias’ withering look held a dry fondness.

“That would hardly be companionable now would it?” He said. Martin watched as he undid his cufflinks and placed them in a small dish on the dresser. “The bed is more than big enough, Martin.” And it was, Martin noted, large enough that they could sprawl completely without touching each other.

As Elias continued to undress, Martin got no further than fidgeting with the top button of his shirt. It was in Simon’s favourite colour (blue) and he’d had to pick his binder carefully to be sure it wouldn’t show through. Which meant maybe Elias didn’t _know_ about him. Normally his clients knew before they arranged a meeting - Martin took care to advertise it, so no one had any nasty surprises. But Simon had set him up with Elias and maybe he’d seen fit not to mention it.

“Here.” While Martin was fretting, Elias had stripped down to his boxers and come over. His nimble hands made quick work of Martin’s shirt. His too-bright eyes were on Martin’s face, filled with an intensity that was flattering, but intimidating. When the buttons were undone Elias stepped round Martin so that he could pull the sleeves gently off his arms. Martin felt fleeting, gentle touches, Elias’s skin brushing his for the barest second. 

Martin had his eyes screwed tight when Elias stepped around to face him again. He felt a firm hand rest on his chest, half on the binder and half on the exposed skin between his collarbones. He opened an eye tentatively. “Binders off in bed, Martin,” Elias said matter-of-factly. Martin blinked. 

Opening both his eyes he stared back at Elias who met his gaze steadily. In the soft bedroom light the older man’s skin seemed to glow. His worry lines were deeper and more visible without whatever subtle make-up he’d been wearing at the party but he looked better for it - more natural, less manufactured. Martin continued to take him in, trailing his eyes across Elias’ collarbones as he stared and was stared at in turn. He looked down and his eyes caught on the twin line of shining silver scars, framing the bottom of his pecs. “Oh, you -” 

Elias smiled and tugged at one strap of Martin’s binder. “Off. We should get _some_ sleep tonight.” He moved away to what was clearly his side of the bed; the bedside table bore two books, a water glass and some reading glasses, where the other was empty of everything save the bedside light.

“Oh I don’t have any…” Martin trailed off. Elias was looking at him again, in that appreciative-but-borderline-terrifying way.

“Don’t feel you need to cover up for my sake,” He said softly, “I would enjoy the view.”

“But…” Elias turned away and rummaged in his bedside table for a few moments.

“Here,” he said, bringing out a large white t-shirt and handing it to Martin. “This should fit.” He sat on the bed, picked up his glasses and book and began to read. Martin held the shirt, too overwhelmed by surprise after surprise to do more than gawk. Eventually he wriggled out of his binder, not bothering to turn around and slipped his trousers off. The shirt _did_ fit, was perhaps even too large for him; it gave him enough coverage at the thigh that he could slip out of his boxers too.

He slipped into bed next to Elias, staring face up at the ceiling and unsure what to do next. He heard rustling as Elias put book and glasses aside and turned off the light. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Elias.” Martin whispered to the room, “Sleep well.” The bed was soft and cool, almost as soft as the shirt Elias had given him to sleep in. Martin tugged at the collar and found scents, unfamiliar - not Elias’ cologne and the slightly musty undertones of his Institute. Something fresh and deep and - It’s his husband’s, Martin’s brain supplied after a few seconds. It’s soft and it smells of him and Elias keeps it his bedside drawer because he misses his husband too much.

Not that all of Martin was sure Elias _had_ a husband. He had a ring, sure, but he had an empty flat that looked barely lived in by one person, let alone two. Martin’s cynical side knew plenty of people lied to sex workers and sidepieces, kept whole families a secret. Not that Martin would turn down a job from a married man, but he understood the desire to avoid being blackmailed. But if Elias _was_ keeping that kind of a secret, the story he’d chosen was a strange one. Why make Martin sharing a bed with him each night part of the plan? That would only make it harder to put in a showing at breakfast with his real family the next morning. Turning these thoughts over and over in his mind, Martin drifted into an uneasy sleep. 

He woke too few hours later to a cold bed. Martin shifted, rolling until he could see the trembling outline of Elias, curled into a ball in the far corner and totally uncovered. Martin shifted, bringing the duvet with him until he was crouched next to Elias’s sleeping form. This close he could hear the soft whimpers and aborted moans of Elias’s troubled sleep. Martin flapped his hands nervously as he paused, unsure. Then he gathered his nerve. This was the _job_ and Elias had warned him.

“Elias?” One hand on his shoulder told Martin he was cold as ice and stiff as a rock. “Elias, it’s Martin, are you-” ‘alright’ died on his lips, _stupid_ Martin, it was obvious Elias was far from ‘alright’. A firm shake didn’t stir him and Martin rolled Elias over, turning so he could see his face. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, frantic in whatever dreamstate this was. 

Alright. Maybe Martin couldn’t wake Elias immdiately, but he could give him something nicer to wake up to. Martin grabbed the corners of the duvet and pulled it down over them both. He curled his arm around Elias, dragging him as close as he dared, resting his chin on Elias’s head. Now he could feel the too-cold body almost burning where it touched his bare skin. The trembling, he found, had a pattern, six or seven small shakes before a larger, full body shudder. Martin rubbed circles into Elias’s back and crooned soft, wordless comforts.

Minutes passed and Elias began to quiet. The huff of his breath against Martin’s chest became warm and gentle. Tension drained from his stiff limbs. In his chest, Martin’s racing heart began to slow. Elias shifted, stirring slightly as he tucked himself closer to Martin. “Mm Peter…” he mumbled as he drifted back into peaceful sleep. Martin stayed awake for a long time, staring at a wall he couldn’t see in the darkness and burning a name into his furious mind. Peter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin adjusts to his role in Elias's life and struggles to remember the most important rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the work rating to explicit because some content got away from me a little; it's still intended to be more about yearning and messy feelings than about sexual explicit situations.

Martin stirred again to find the bedroom lit from somewhere behind him. Turning his head to squint in that direction he saw the bathroom light was on. “Elias?” There was no answer for a few moments then the light clicked off. Martin heard quiet footsteps and felt a hand on his shoulder, “What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“Half past eight. I have to go into the office for a few hours - I should be back before lunch. Please make yourself at home.” Martin felt a gentle hand brush the curls out of his face, then Elias was gone. Martin sighed, rolled over and went back to sleep.

If ‘making yourself at home’ meant staying in bed far longer than necessary Martin certainly did it. Eventually he stumbled his way out of bed and into the shower. He stayed under the hot, welcome pressure of Elias’s fancy shower for a long time, slowly letting his body wake up. There was no reason to rush. Elias might be back in minutes or hours and he’d made it clear he wouldn’t be unhappy to find a naked Martin wandering round his house. When he eventually bothered to look at the toiletries, he found a few small, obviously expensive options. The shampoo was a citrus blend that claimed to include basil; the soap proudly proclaimed it was ‘pomegranate noir.’ Martin took hedonistic handfuls of both and emerged smelling like an orchard.

When it came to dressing gowns, three hung in one corner of the (ludicriously luxurious) bathroom. Two were obviously Elias’s - they were shorter and smaller, one a silky red embroidered with a golden dragon and the other a warmer winter option in a deep burgundy with a tartan lining. The third was larger, shock white like it had never been used and with a deep and fluffy character that made Martin think inexplicably of polar bears. Martin ran his fingers down the - yes, impossibly soft - sleeve, thinking. It was big enough to fit him, certainly, but it was obviously Peter’s, immaculate and unused. Elias had said to make himself at home but surely he didn’t mean this.

Regretfully Martin left the warmth and comfort of the bathroom to search out last night’s suit jacket. He always tucked a few things into the inner pocket before a night with Simon - condoms, in case they didn’t make it back to Simon’s; a tiny toothbrush and change of underwear. Martin could face practically any walk of shame - bruised to head to toe and in a shirt so shredded it was practically not there - as long as he had a clean pair of underwear. It wasn’t a fluffy white dressing gown, but it would do.

Once his teeth were brushed and he’d dressed again, Martin settled on the sofa. It was comfortable and incredibly spacious and he nestled into it while he checked the messages on his phone. A large sum of money had been deposited in his bank account a few hours ago. He didn’t recognise the account number but the reference ‘take him to dizzying heights’ made his eyes roll. _Simon_. Martin checked a few emails before giving up on productivity and settling in to a nice mindless trawl through social media. He _did_ look up the Magnus Institute more directly now. He’d done the usual checks on Elias Bouchard before letting Simon egg him into meeting but that hadn’t extended to caring about his work, beyond that it paid well enough and wasn’t jawdroppingly illegal.

The Institue Website was easy enough to find. Like most organisations over a hundred there were plenty of moody exterior shots and expensively furnished interiors that overlooked the bright modern bathrooms and the heavy modern vault door that apparently led to Artefact Storage. As a research institution for the esoteric and the strange, Martin had to say it didn’t do a terribly impressive job. There were a few old statements that had been declassified on the website and a few, even less coherent, modern ones that had been published ‘with the permission of the interviewee’ and even a gallery of photos of mundane looking objects that the donors had assured the institute were haunted.

The website’s profile of ‘Our Beloved Founder Jonah Magnus’ had a breathy, adoring tone that totally failed to disguise the fact that the institute had sprung into being because an eccentric Scotsman had taken the Georgian fascination with ghost stories to unparalleled levels and devoted his entire fortune to keep the institute running for as long as possible after his death. There was even, Martin was amused to find, a profile of Simon Fairchild, his wrinkled face beaming out from under layers of cold weather gear atop a mountain somewhere, next to a short message thanking ‘Our Most Loyal Supporters.’ Most of the rest of whom, Martin realised, were anonymous. So, not a very prestigious ghost-hunting institute then. Simon wouldn’t mind in the slightest having his name publicly attached to such a poorly thought of venture, but Martin could imagine plenty of rich and famous people who secretly believed in ghosts but would prefer that kept secret. 

Martin was halfway down a reddit thread devoted to diminshing the Institute’s contribution to the Science of Ghost Hunting when Elias returned. He was humming when he opened the door. Martin jerked in surprise and tucked his phone guiltily down between two sofa cushions. Elias didn’t materialise; Martin could hear him bustling around in the kitchen, still humming away. After a few minutes Elias came into the living room. “Ah, there you are,” he said, “There’s lunch, if you’d like some.” Martin’s belly rumbled, as if on cue, and Elias’s smile deepened. “Come along, then,” he said, amusement bright in his voice.

He stayed in the doorway as Martin pulled himself up then held his hand out to guide Martin the maybe half a dozen steps to the dining table, where a range of meats, cheeses and fruits were arranged in an elaborate charcuterie. Martin stared. Elias had even piled a small plate of bliny with sour cream and smoked salmon, each garnished with a small individual piece of greenery. “Mostly the work of Marks and Spencer, I’m afraid,” Elias said as he picked one of each item to delicately line his plate. “We’ll have to go out for dinner or arrange a delivery, I haven’t kept up with the shopping.”

Martin politely ignored the fiction that Elias would bother getting groceries in himself under normal circumstances. “You want me to stay?”

“You helped, didn’t you?” Elias asked, surprise crossing his face for a second. “It was… better. With you there.” Martin focused on his food for a few minutes, thinking. If that had been ‘better’ Martin didn’t want to see worse. “Why don’t you take the afternoon and go back to your flat, pack a few things for a few days, make yourself comfortable? We can talk about longer term plans once you’re settled.”

Martin already had what he thought of as the ‘weekend away bag’ prepared with his usual diligence for just about every eventuality. A selection of his most flattering outfits, swimming trunks and a few sets of lingerie were already included. (Simon Fairchild had his own personal weekend away kit, which was loaded with things like wetsuits, extreme weather gear and a fitted oxygen mask, just in case.) The only thing Martin needed to add was a selection from the toybox. He already carried condoms but clients were usually supposed to provide their own toys, but this was different. This was off-the-job sex with a client. Stupid and unprofesisonal but very, very sexy. Martin was packing for his own pleasure, not just for Elias’s.

He definitely needed a strap. Two straps. One for him and one for Elias, if he wanted to use it. (Please, let him want to use it.) Vibrators... Martin set the cuffs and whips aside for a later date and pulled out his favourite toy. It was, technically, a double ended dildo, but where one end was a rough facsimile of a penis, the other was bent at an irregular angle with a wide, short bulb. This was designed to sit inside his cunt while the near end of the dildo stimulated his dick. It was the _best_ way Martin had found to get off on penetration, even oral and he couldn’t wait to see if Elias would let him use it.

Elias… Martin sat gently on his bed and looked at his hands. This was such a bad idea. Elias wasn’t his first non-sexual client, but was definitely his first completely chaste job. Plenty of people wanted to tie him up or be tied up and beaten without actual penetration… Elias was the first person who had asked for, and apparently wanted, nothing more than a warm body in his bed to chase nightmares away. He didn’t need a sex worker, he needed a therapist. Or a cat, or something. Typical of one of Simon’s friends, to think of paying another human for company before he thought of getting a pet.

If Martin had friends he could ask them about this whole situation; was following up on Elias’s overtures a good idea? Sex was on the table if he wanted it, but was that just Elias’s way of trying to get lower rates? (He wouldn’t - Martin charged by the hour, or the day not per act, with one off fees for certain things, no matter how long the session ran.) And if Elias _did_ have a husband and he wasn’t secretly dead or something, what would Martin do when ‘Peter’ came home? He’d have to make sure he kept the flat for sure, and do his best not to get spoiled by Elias’s fancy soaps and expensive tastes. It would be easier to keep his life anchored if he had people to spend time with outside of Elias. Lonely as Martin was, spending months as the live-in companion to Elias Bouchard was going to have one hell of a comedown when it all fell apart.

Oh well. For now, he could see if the sex was good and bail if... Martin didn’t even bother finishing the thought. Martin Blackwood had sat at the bedside of an ailing mother for longer than either of them was comfortable with. He wouldn’t go abandoning Elias just because he was bad at sex or anything. That was ridiculous! Be realistic, Martin, you’re in over your head and you’ve already committed. No backing out now. With an overly emphatic yank Martin zipped his bag shut. Enough wallowing.

Elias was sat on the sofa when Martin came back, laptop in his lap and a glass of wine on the table in front of him. He looked up and smiled when Martin came in. “Welcome back. Put your things in the wardrobe, there’s plenty of space.” There was. 

The wardrobe contained Elias’s suits, hung in order from smart to casual. There was even a pair of dark jeans, hanging between the most informal of the trousers and the start of the shirts. Even then, the wardrobe was easily large enough for two people’s clothes and it contained only one. Martin hung his shirts - more colourful and casual than Elias’s by far, but kept his jeans folded as he opened the drawers in the bottom of the wardrobe. Again, the space was so large it almost swallowed him. Here were Elias’s pyjamas, underwear and then a handful of items that could not have possibly belonged to him; some more t-shirts, a woolen hat and a sock, blue, with little anchors on it. Martin swept them all delicately into a corner and tipped the rest of his bag up into the drawer. He slammed it shut with a little more force than he meant to. Don’t be jealous of Peter. Don’t be angry at Peter. Better just to pretend Peter doesn’t exist, really.

The afternoon with Elias passed much more easily than Martin had expected. He was apologetic about the work he still had to do, happy for Martin to sit next to him on the couch and waste time on twitter and gratifyingly pleasantly surprised when Martin offered to make tea and asked him how he took it. The second time Martin offered, however, he closed his laptop and sighed. Martin recoiled slightly - had the first cup he made been _that_ bad? - but Elias merely smiled and said “No, I think it’s about time we thought about dinner.”

They ordered food from a Turkish place - Elias didn’t say anything, but Martin noticed all they bought were dishes much too big for one person, but easy to share. (There were still leftovers and Elias had seemed incredibly enthusiastic about the concept of breakfast hummus.) After dinner, Elias insisted on having Martin sit with him on the sofa while he put in an online food order. Every item had to meet Martin’s approval, from the types of tea and the colour of the milk to the varieties of pate and the cuts of meat. Frankly Martin wasn’t familiar with most of the options - Elias wasn’t even using Waitrose he was using _Fortnum and Mason_ which Martin didn’t even know let you order online.

When they were finished Martin made a great show of stretching and said. “Shall we… go to bed?” Elias frowned slightly and shut the laptop.

“Are you tied? I didn’t keep you awake last night did I?” He turned to look Martin full in the face, eyes searching for something.

“No no!” Martin said quickly, talking about last night would definitely kill the mood, “No I just… thought we might have sex.” If the last few words came out in a rush, sue him, he hadn’t done actual flirting for years.

“Oh.” Elias said, and suddenly his voice was deep and rich and playful, “Yes Martin, perhaps we should go to bed. What an excellent idea.” Settling the laptop aside, Elias shifted so that he could half draw his knees up onto the sofa. His gaze on Martin’s face was intense, no doubt seeing every tremble and quiver. One hand came up around Martin’s neck and slowly drew him closer, eyes never wavering, never closing, until Martin broke and surged forward so their lips met. He felt Elias’s delighted little chuckle as he wound his fingers into Martin’s hair and deepened the kiss.

Elias pulled Martin down ontop of him, hands on his back and on his arse urging him closer. Martin resisted; too close meant no space to fumble at the buttons on Elias’s shirt, no space to pull back and drink him in, the way his silver-golden hair looked all mussed, the way heat flushed across his face and pooled in his eyes. Elias didn’t care; his mouth was on Martin’s neck, pressing soft, urgent kisses along it, tantalisingly brief moments of pleasure that made Martin’s head empty of all rational thought.

It was too long later when he finally broke free and pushed himself back onto his hands. Elias whined, already twisting long fingers in his shirt (a couple of buttons of which had worked free… somehow) to pull him back. Martin shook his head, gasping for breath.

“Bed,” he said, when he was composed enough to do so. Let them move somewhere where Martin could be free of his oppressively hot binder, where he could sprawl Elias out properly and take his time adoring him. Elias nodded, but didn’t move. Martin took his hand and led him to his feet, pulling him up into a kiss that nearly had them falling straight back onto the sofa.

Elias was not steady on his feet as they made their way to the bedroom - Martin half entertained the idea of carrying him, but dropping Elias would be too mortifying an experience so he resisted, contenting himself with Elias’s arm, slung around his waist. When they reached the bedroom, Elias manouvered Martin down onto the edge of the bed and stood straddling his legs. In that position, Martin had to look up at Elias for a change.

Elias smiled, blissful and benevolent and continued to undo the buttons on Martin’s shirt. When he was finished, he pushed the shirt off and helped Martin struggle awkwardly out of his binder. While Martin caught his breath, Elias’ hands traced down his chest, stroking at the bare skin of his hips.

When Elias undid the button of Martin’s jeans and slipped his fingers inside, Martin was caught in the embarrassing position of being both hard and wet. Elias ground against him for a moment, eyes tracing slowly down Martin’s body, lingering on any sign of his arousal; his flushed face and wet lips, the perk of his nipples and the soft, shallow breaths he was taking, ones that fell away into gasps and moans whenever Elias rolled his hips and rubbed his groin against Martin - catching his dick just so when he did. Elias slupped a hand beneath Martin’s underwear and rubbed. “All this for me?” he murmured.

“It’s - ah - testosterone,” Martin replied. Elias muttered something that sounded like ‘I remember.’ Then he shifted, fingers teasing at Martin’s entrance, while he ground the base of his hand up into Martin’s dick.

“Oh? Nothing to do with me? Shame.” Martin opened his mouth to protest but Elias was tugging on his hips, angling for him to lift up so he could slide his trousers and pants off, leaving Martin practically naked while Elias was still fully clothed. Martin wasn’t _insecure_ about his genitals, in fairness, he was actually quite proud of the t-growth he’d had and he was certainly comfortable enough being naked for people-strangers-clients. But there was always this moment, the pause, the soft intake of breath while he waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Oh, let me.” Elias breathed, kneeling to kiss Martin’s thighs, stroking and petting and drawing Martin’s dick into his mouth, punctuating his work with gasps and heady moans and adoration. His eyes stayed open, fixed on Martin, who threw his head back and fell back to the bed, collapsing as Elias brought him to completion. 

“Come here,” Martin called, through the post-orgasmic haze and Elias obliged. He’d stripped a little, while Martin was distracted, trousers and shirt discarded. Martin used one arm to pull him down, chest to chest. Elias’s mouth traced a line along Martin’s jaw as he rubbed against him. Martin felt a shift and Elias was strandling just one of his thighs, grinding against it as he continued to mouth at Martin’s neck. Martin brought a hand up to Elias’s nipples and felt the shudder that ran through Elias’s body as he brushed them. The wicked glint in Elias’s eye as their eyes met probably matched Martin’s own. A few moments later Elias was bucking and writhing on Martin’s lap, making a mess on his thigh as hands and teeth toyed with his nipples.

They collapsed in a sticky mess together, gently holding each other as the last aftershocks subsided. “Oh,” Martin said into the warm atmosphere of the afterglow.

“What?” Elias asked, his voice echoing with false lightness, the tension of a first time not wholly diffused.

“Nothing, just I - I brought toys for us to use.” Elias laughed, delight just slightly edged with relief.

“Next time, darling boy, next time.” Elias kissed him and the world caught its breath once again but the endearment passed without comment, settling into Martin’s bones. _Darling boy._ Darling _boy. Darling_ boy.

Elias’s fingers pinched Martin’s hip, shaking him out of the headspace. “Shower.” he said, sliding slowly off of Martin until his feet hit the floor and he could stand. “Come along.”

It could have been awkward, so close to each other, navigating the unspoken agreement that while they _could_ have more sex neither of them really wanted it. Instead it was a shower full of soft touches and hot, messy kisses, a broadly functional exercise in cleaning interrupted by languid moments of contact that were all the more satisfying for being free of the urgent demand for release, enabling them to truly take their time exploring each other.

It was only when Martin started literally sagging, eyes closed drowsily and weight resting on Elias’s shoulders, that Elias turned the water off and dragged them back to bed. This time, Martin slid his arms around Elias before they went to sleep. His brain was still full of soft, warm, post-orgasm contentment and he had no compunction about starting the night holding Elias close and keeping the cold at bay. Elias let out a pleased little sigh and that was that.

Martin woke to someone struggling in his arms. He blinked awake frantically only to see Elias, half sat up in bed, looking down at him and smiling. Elias took Martin’s arm and pulled it around him as he lay back down, now facing Martin.

“Good morning,” he purred

“Morning,” Martin said, still groggy. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, very well.”

“Are you going into the office today?” Martin kept the whiny neediness out his voice, but he pulled Elias a little closer, trying to steal every last ounce of his warmth.

“No, no, I did all my work yesterday and I would like to _have_ a weekend. Today is all about you Martin,” Elias pressed a kiss to Martin’s forehead, “What would you like to do?”

Martin’s blush reached up to his ears again and Elias smirked at him. “All day? You’ll be the death of me, I’m sure.” But he kissed the top of Martin’s ear and that distracted them for a while.

When they finally ventured outside the flat, Elias walked Martin to a place that did an extended brunch nearby, on the river. After lunch they took a walk through a park and Elias lingered indulgently while Martin admired the birds in the lake and promised they could come back to feed them another time.

Back at the flat, Elias offered Martin a tour. In addition to the bedroom with its ensuite and the semi open-plan living and dining space, there were several other rooms; a more communal bathroom, a tiny second bedroom that reassured Martin he hadn’t fallen into some parallel London and … the office. Elias called it an office anyway. Martin felt it was more of a small, private library. It was a room lined with bookshelves on every wall, dark wooden antiques stuffed with books almost as ancient. The only interuptions were for the desk, itself dark and antique, and the loveseat tucked against the window.

Martin was so lost in exploring Elias’s varied taste in books - he definitely favoured old and expensive texts - that he didn’t notice he’d been left alone until the doorbell rang. He reluctantly shelved what looked like an early collection of works from female Romantic poets and went in search of Elias. He found him in the kitchen, unpacking the grocery delivery. Martin offered what help he could - mainly his focus was on learning where Elias kept things so he wouldn’t have to ask later. When that was done Martin made tea for them both overwhich Elias began to discuss his weekly routine and where Martin would fit into it.

Work, naturally, kept Elias busy; he finished late most evenings. Martin was, officially, free to do whatever he wanted, so long as he was present in bed overnight but Martin found the urge to be present when Elias got home practically overwhelming - his homekeeping urges even extended to having dinner ready and warming when Elias walked through the door. There was an embarrassing moment in the first week of Martin living with Elias, when the cleaner (housekeeper, Elias insisted,) walked in on Martin cleaning the hob and threw him out of the kitchen. 

Nights were ...varied. Sometimes Elias would sleep peacefully, better for being held snug in Martin’s arms. Other nights, Martin would wake to a shaking wreck and have to gently uncurl him and comfort him - sometimes while Elias remained in the grips of whatever nightmare held him, sometimes through his embarrassment when he woke to find his cheeks stained with tears and deep red lines tracing his skin where he had clawed at himself. With time, Martin learned to keep hold of Elias even while deeply asleep, offering some grounding contact whether that was a deep embrace or a simple hand on the small of his back.

What free time Elias had was filled with Martin. The occasional early weeknight would lead to spontaneous theatre trips and quick, expensive meals in Soho and the West End. On weekends, Elias tried to have at least a day free, though his whims varied from quiet days filled with walks and long lazy hours on the sofa to museum trips and cooking classes, wine tastings, expensive dinners… date things. Which might, of course, also be friendship things but were probably ‘sorry you have to comfort me through my nightmares’ things. Martin tried to tell himself that he was simply glad for the change of pace from Simon’s outings; theme parks, diving (sky and regular) and skiing holidays. Martin had become thoroughly if politely bored of rollercoasters, not that Simon seemed to mind. Elias simply offered a nice change, that was all.

*

“Have you thought about surgery?” Elias asked one day as they lay together on the sofa. Martin stiffened briefly and Elias’s hands came up to gently stroke his belly until he was ready to respond.

“No, I - I hear it works better on thinner bodies? And I was planning to lose weight but then they say you have to remain stable after or it will look… wrong?” 

Elias scoffed, his breath warm against Martin’s ear. “Only if you don’t get a suitably skilled surgeon.” His fingers twisted in the trail of hair below Martin’s belly button and his other hand squeezed his hip. “No matter, darling boy, it is your choice. As long as money is not the object.”

“You’d pay for it?”

“Of course,” Elias pressed a soft kiss to the back of Martin’s neck, “Though actually, I was thinking of making Simon pay. It’s the least he can do after all this time.”

That made Martin chuckle. “He did offer once. Uh- a long time ago.” Elias’s arms tightened their hold on Martin, pulling him close possessively. “I turned him down.” Martin had been younger then, less sure of himself. He hadn’t wanted to give anyone more power over him than they already had.

Martin _liked_ Simon, liked all of his clients these days, but Elias… seeing him that first night had turned this from a job into an act of compassion. If Elias had thrown him out after that for being too intimate, too aware of his vulnerabilities, Martin wouldn’t have charged him a penny. It had just been… the right thing to do. What he wanted to do. Martin shivered. He’d liked Pretty Woman as much as the next working class kid with terrible luck in charity shop video bins but as a sex worker he very much saw the other side of things. No romantic notions, no falling in love with the clients, Business only.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two's company; three is a crowd. Martin struggles to adjust when Elias's husband returns.

They were sat together on the sofa one evening, Martin’s head in Elias’s lap. They’d started the night on opposite ends, working (Martin still had a few cam clients he filmed for during the days and there was admin to do) but slowly, slowly Martin had given into the temptation to rest his head on Elias’s shoulder, watching the incessant review of spreadsheets and the sending of emails until Elias put his laptop to the side and tugged Martin down into his lap.

They stayed there for a while, Elias stroking Martin’s hair gently until Elias murmured. “My husband’s ship will dock next week.”

“What?” Martin clearly remembered Elias saying he had a husband who worked at sea, one that he’d have thought was a lie or a cover, if it wasn’t for the faint traces of him left around the flat. Martin’s hands caught Elias’s, tracing over the knuckles until they caught on the gold band of his wedding ring.

“Mm… I hope you’ll like him.” Martin knew Elias well enough to hear the genuine anxiety in his voice. Martin felt very silly. Like he was going to be got rid of and he knew, he _knew_ that would happen but he’d got too deep into the fiction. Sure his bank account swelled every week but he liked Elias. He would have done this forever and for free.

They didn’t have sex that night and Martin considered letting Elias sleep alone but the memory of his pitiful shaking body kept him close. He wanted to meet this Peter, he decided, to figure out who could hurt Elias so easily, so carelessly.

They _did_ have sex the following night, Martin having thrown off his petty sulk by replacing it with jealous, possessive anxiety. He wasn’t usually a particularly cruel lover but something about the endless parade of imaginary Peters in his head made Martin want to throw Elias down over the nearest surface and work him over until they both forgot Peter, forgot everyone but each other. He restrained himself to just the bed and to nearly-but-not-quite the sofa that once. Elias went to work with slightly thicker foundation than usual, as Martin had taken delight in sucking bruises into places, like the soft underside of his jaw, that even the highest collar couldn’t hide. 

Elias, for his part, seemed to relish the change of pace. Martin couldn’t help but notice other changes too. Elias hummed more when he was pottering around the house, had a literal spring in his step at times. But he also startled more easily, looking up at every stray sound, breaking off mid-sentence to hear a car pass by the window.

They were having dinner, the night before Peter was due, when the door opened, mid-meal. There came the heavy thunk of boots being discarded (not, Martin thought uncharitably, placed carefully on the shoerack, but kicked off to lie messily on the floor.) “Have a seat there’s plenty of food,” Elias called. And there _was_ but that’s because Martin liked to make spare for Elias to take to work, not for his errant husband to snaffle.

Martin tried not to compare himself to the broad, silver haired man who entered. He was taller, his face handsomely weathered by time and the elements, his blue-grey eyes sparkled and his smile was wide and charming. He was a better Martin in every respect. Peter shrugged his heavy coat off, and hung it over a chair. It was so long (he was so tall) that the bottom edge draped on the ground. It was sopping wet and Martin took a smug pleasure in the way Elias’s mouth twitched downward, but no comment came about the perfectly good coat rack in the hall.

“Ah,” Peter said, and his voice was perfect too, easy and charming with rounded southern tones like Simon and Elias. “You must be Martin.” He offered his hand across the table and Martin quickly pulled himself to his feet to take it. His hand was large and his grip strong and it lingered, uncomfortably long, like he didn’t know how long he was meant to hold it - or he just wanted to unsettle Martin. It worked. Elias watched, amused and still seated at the head of the table.

“You must be Peter,” Martin offered, slightly shakily, “Uh, I didn’t set a space let me get you a plate…”

“Oh no need, no need,” Peter finally broke the handshake to wave Martin off, “I know where everything is, I’ll get it.” Martin sat down, slowly. Of course he does, idiot, it’s his house. _You’re_ the guest here.

When Peter returned with his plate, Elias took it without comment and began filling it for him. Martin couldn’t help noticing the care Elias took, making sure to select the choicest pieces of each dish and even going to so far as to pick olives out of the salad for him.

“My husband,” he murmured to Martin apologetically, “Does not have very refined tastes in salad.”

“I hate them,” said Peter cheerfully, as he accepted the plate from Elias and immediately mixed every item together and tucked in with relish. Elias made a soft, impossibly fond sniff of disdain and returned to the conversation he’d been having with Martin about the difficulty Govermant grant-givers seemed to find deciding if his Institute’s work was historical, scientific or on one occasion, a work of installation art, a mess which he’d spend most of the afternoon untangling.

Martin assumed the best thing to do would be to excuse himself after dinner, go to his lonely, empty flat and come back in the morning to collect his things, but Elias wouldn’t let him. His wineglass remained full, even though he never noticed it being filled. He was invited - Elias insisted - to join Elias and Peter on the sofa as they caught up. The sofa was fairly cramped with all three of them but Elias kept a firm hand on Martin’s thigh or an arm around his shoulder for hours. Martin didn’t have much to offer - mostly they spoke of old friends, only one of which (Simon) Martin was at all familiar with - but when he did volunteer a comment, almost swallowing them in his anxiety and fear, like he used to, Elias and Peter both took it in stride like it was welcome.

Finally as Peter began making the most _unsubtle, blatant_ signs that he would like to go to bed and take Elias with him - yawning exaggeratedly and stretching - Martin stood to leave. Elias caught him in the kitchen a hand around his wrist, pulling him back. “Stay,” he said, and something in his voice sounded pleading, heartbreaking. Martin was helpless to refuse.

Peter was already down to his boxers in the bedroom by the time Elias led Martin in and stepped aside to undress himself. Peter slid smoothly into the space he’d vacated. “So, Martin.”

“Er…” Martin trembled slightly, his fingers sliding over his buttons without working properly. 

“Have you been looking after my husband?” Peter took over, making short work of the buttons as he continued, “Haven’t been letting him get lonely?” What was this? Peter was in his space, a hot, broad, _overwhelming_ amount of man. Was he _coming on_ to his husband’s… All of the anger, the rage, the frustration bubbled up inside Martin as he opened his mouth to reply.

“Actually I -” Elias yawned, pointedly, interrupting whatever foolish thing, Martin had been about to say. The heat of Elias’s glare was directed at Peter, not Martin, who would have withered under it in seconds. Peter simply shrugged and stepped away. Martin hesitated - again - and Elias raised one eyebrow at him. He smiled. Martin fled to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Peter slept on Martin’s side of the bed. It was obviously _really_ his side and Martin had just been borrowing it. Now Peter was back and there was no place for Martin. Peter lay there like he owned the place; on his back, _graciously_ leaving one arm held out. Elais curled pitifully around it; not even properly cuddled, just leeching whatever affection he could from an uncaring arm. That left Elias’s side of the bed for Martin. Neither Peter nor Elias seemed to notice when he lifted the covers and slipped into bed.

Martin watched Elias for a long time. He slept more peacefully than Martin had ever seen, which only made Martin more furious. He fumed until he fell into a fitful sleep and woke before the others. This gave him the perfect opportunity to watch Elias rising for work. Obviously Peter was sleepy enough not to hide intimacy so early in the morning; when Elias rose, he shifted and tried to snare him in his big, broad arms. Elias’s sigh was blissful; when he wriggled free he paused and bent down to kiss Martin chastely on the mouth.

“See you tonight,” Elias whispered into Martin’s ear. Then he was gone. A short while later Martin heard the front door shut and he and Peter were alone in the flat. In the bed. As quickly and elegantly as he could, Martin slid out from under the covers and fled to the bathroom.

He spent an unreasonable amount of time sat with his head in his hands. (Elias’s bathroom had a wooden stool in it, presumably _not_ intended for precisely this purpose.) What a mess! How had he let himself get caught up in all this? Why hadn’t he left last night? Or before - when Elias had said Peter was coming back, when Martin had first known he’d not long be wanted or needed here.

Eventually, Martin pulled himself together enough to have a shower. This made him feel brave enough to venture back outside the bathroom and face Peter. Martin found him sitting on the sofa, in comfortable, full length pyjama pants and no top. He was reading a book - not one of Elias’s, this was a massmarket paperback with a title like ‘The End of the World; A Bunch of Science About How We’re All Doomed.’ (Martin might have skimmed the subtitle.) His brain stuck on an entirely different fact; Peter was wearing reading glasses.

Martin stood in the doorway and took in the scene slowly; the strands of grey hair falling into Peter’s eyes went unnoticed. His brow was furrowed in concentration and Martin could almost imagine him sticking his tongue out in frustration when he got to a particularly difficult passage. Martin’s gaze trailed down Peter’s chest and belly, noting the way his generous helping of chest hair glinted in the light. He was so _big_ and so _manly_ and so _perfect_. Ugh!

Martin must have made a noise because Peter looked up with a start. “Oh, Martin.” He paused, obviously taking in Martin’s state, because he then asked, “Are you alright?”

“Oh yes, don’t mind me, I was just thinking about how unfair everything is.” It wasn’t a spot on his usual deflection, coming as it did through gritted teeth but any reasonable person would take the hint and drop it- 

“Unfair?” 

Martin gave in. It came out in a mess, a jumble of grievances something like “You have your chest and your hair and your nice house and your husband and you’re hot and _infuriating_ and I can’t even have sex with you.” Martin broke off, startled by himself. It was certainly _possible_ that he’d like to have sex with Peter, though it really undermined the rest of it. There was a short pause as Peter considered this.

“Would that… help?”

“Ugh!” Martin threw up his hands and turned to run away. He couldn’t go hide in the bedroom, that would have sent entirely the wrong message so he stormed out of the front door and out into the street.

He spent maybe twenty minutes stalking the mean streets of Chelsea like a man possessed before he ran out of venom and - surprisingly - felt a little calmer. His feet were making their way back to the flat while his brain tried to think of something, anything, he could say or do to avoid having to say anything to Peter - mainly about this, but ideally ever, at all.

“Martin.” The familiar voice startled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Elias stepping smoothly out of a black car - not a cab, but one of those fancier private taxis. He stopped and waited while Elias made his way over - apparently there was no need to pay the driver or anything. Elias scooped Martin up with one arm and began walking him smartly towards the flat.

“Elias…”

“Peter called.” Elias said, in a tone that shot for casual and missed, “He was worried he’d done something wrong. And he didn’t know how to fix it, so naturally he called me.” Elias started walking and Martin hurried to keep pace. He was wearing a beautiful knee-length coat in a colour that was probably called ‘plum’ and an emerald green scarf. They complimented the greying blond of his hair and the chill brought colour to his high-boned cheeks and _Martin was going to die of sexual frustration today, what was_ wrong _with him?_

At first they walked in silence. Elias was leading him back to the flat, where Martin had been going _anyway_ , but he kept glancing over at Martin and frowning slightly, the tightness knitting across his forehead deepening a little every time. “You know,” he began at last, “I know this situation is highly unorthodox, Martin and we are hardly… well, there is hardly a word for what we are. But. I would still very much like to know when things are troubling you and what they are.” 

“Like my wanting to have sex with your husband.” This time, Elias’s look was much more piercing.

“Mm.” he said in reply, and left the conversation there for the rest of the walk back.

Elias led Martin into the sitting room; Peter had sequestered one of the dining chairs and was sitting in it, waiting for them. He’d put on a shirt, the same plain white one Martin had borrowed that first night. Elias led Martin to the couch and sat.

“So. You don’t feel comfortable here, with Peter back.”

“Not really.” Martin couldn’t decide whether to look at Elias or Peter so he looked at the floor. “Sorry.”

“And why is that?” Elias reached out with one finger to tilt Martin’s head up until he met Elias’s gentle gaze. “Was it something he did? Said? Can you not stand the sight of that awful beard? - really Martin, whatever it is I will understand.” Peter chuckled darkly in response to the beard jab; Martin just sighed.

“I don’t think… I’m not sure why Peter would be happy to share you with me.” Elias’s smile was wide.

“I’ll try not to be flattered long enough to find an explanation that you’ll accept. After all, you are highly skilled, very attractive, agreeable to be around… How could either of us resist?” Martin snorted. “Martin.” Elias sighed and pulled him in closer. “I promise you Peter is quite happy to share. Both of us, if that’s what you’d like. Isn’t that right, Peter?”

“Anything to reduce the strain having two lovers would be on my husband,” Peter winked at Martin, “You see, when it comes to this sort of thing his eyes are bigger than his -”

“Peter!” Elias objected, firmly. “Will you at least let Martin see what _good_ qualities you have before you lose his good opinion with your sordid remarks? This is hardly going to work out long term if he sees you as a sour puss in a soggy overcoat.”

“If it works out at all,” Martin muttered darkly. Elias’s smile was thinner, more tense.

“Well! We won’t know unless we try, will we?” His words had a brisk, falsely-cheerful quality. “Now. I’ve cleared my schedule for the afternoon and Martin is feeling very frustrated. No time like the present.” Elias stood and held his hand out to a spluttering Martin.

Elias wanted to try Martin-having-sex-with Peter. Elias wanted them to work, as a trio. Martin could do that, couldn’t he? He could try, for Elias’ sake. Elias wanted them to try _now_. Which was probably faster than it was sensible going but. Martin was certainly weirdly, buzzingly tense in a way that only sex or more angry walking was going to sort out for him.

He took the offered hand and let Elias guide him back to the bedroom. Peter’s unspoken presence loomed behind him. It might have been intended to be a calming reassurance, but it was certainly more distracting than anything. When they reached the bed Elias pulled off his suit jacket and turned to hang it on a nearby chair. Martin dithered, unsure if he wanted to strip or face Peter clothed for now.

Peter answered the question by picking Martin up in a bridal carry. He smirked as Martin gasped in shock - No one had _ever_ lifted him so casually before. Then Peter unceremoniously dumped him on the bed, which made Martin’s treacherous heart do a somersault. He moved quickly; that white shirt was already gone and he was quickly bringing Martin to a similar state of undress. He used his size, his whole body to overwhelm Martin, leaning down to rub their chests together, his hands on Martin’s, everywhere he looked, everything he felt was Peter. 

Elias was a considered, deliberate lover and he’d shown a tendency to prefer rougher, stronger, more intense moves from Martin. When Peter pressed into him for a kiss Martin could see what Elias liked about it. The brush of Peter’s chest hair against Martin’s nipples as he moved slowly above him was agonising, tantalisingly good. When Peter broke their first kiss, Martin was panting.

Martin turned his head to the side, allowing Peter access to his neck. Elias was on the bed beside them, lying propped up on one elbow. Did this give him a better view? Why? What was so appealing about watching his husband fuck his lover? Peter was moving fast - no faster than Martin wanted, but he was already teasing fingers across Martin’s nipples, at his entrance and - Peter shifted and Martin moaned - inside him. Peter leant back for a moment, drawing a few breaths that might uncharitably have been called pants then he moved and oh. Martin shifted his hips up to meet Peter’s fingers.

It was good but it was wrong. Elias was right there, still in Martin’s eyeline, doing nothing, getting nothing and Martin should be doing more to earn this, all this pleasure. He should be kissing Elias and taking care of him and making him feel good, as good as Martin did when Peter did that. Martin whined, unable to voice the thoughts coherently and Elias’s eyes flicked up to meet him.

“Ssh…” he said, taking Martin’s hand where it was grasping uselessly at the sheets for him. “You’re doing so well, being so good for me, just relax now.” Martin nodded, breathless and gave in to the tickle of Peter’s beard on his skin and the slow slide of the biggest, warmest cock he’d taken in a long time.

Afterward, Peter waited only the shortest of moments before sliding off the bed and into the bathroom. Martin felt the cold of a bad comedown threaten to envelop him then Elias was pulling him close. Martin heard the rustle of clothes and realised with horror that Elias was still dressed, his crisp work shirt and his finely tailored trousers now sticky with sweat, if nothing else. Elias’s grip was firm, one hand splayed across Martin’s chest, the other rubbing idle circles on his hip. He was crooning contendedly and Martin was warm and safe and happy and he would have so loved to drift off like this, to forget the stress of the last few days and truly relax.

No. Martin struggled through the fog. There were things, important things that had to be said, he had to clear up. “I should go.” Elias’s grip tightened reflexively then loosened. When he lifted his head from the back of Martin’s neck to one ear his voice was smooth, controlled.

“Why?”

“You’ve got your husband back - I’m just in the way now. I don’t want to come between you.”

“You don’t?” Elias teased.

“Elias.” 

“He won’t stay forever.”

“Call me back when he leaves then.” For a few moments, Elias was quiet. The only sounds were the shower and their gentle breathing. When he spoke again his voice was distant, dreamy.

“When I was younger I… walked out with a number of men at once. One of them was a relative of Peter’s - that’s how we came to meet. There was always such a tedious dance with that set, trying not to get one too jealous or to overstay my welcome with another. In the end, I broke it off with all of them, one after the other. Now, when I finally have a partner who accepts my -ah- voracity? I see no reason to stop at one.”

“And Peter?”

“He won’t get attached to you, if he can help it, but he’ll behave. Tolerate you, if you will.” Martin’s treacherous brain thought of the way Peter fucked him. He’d be alright being ‘tolerated’ like that. “And all the while besides, you’ll have me.” Elias nuzzled against Martin’s neck. “Won’t that be enough?”

Martin sighed and didn’t say anything. It was almost everything he’d ever wanted. Good food, good sex, good company. The sort of place he could get a cat in, or maybe even a dog… He could dance around Peter while he was here, see if Elias wanted to be present for _all_ their one on one sessions - maybe get a camera, do some ‘personal’ tapes for when he went back to sea and Elias got all mopey. He’d kept the lease up on the flat all these months, maybe it was time to sublet it? Or he could lose the lease and just get put his stu-ff in storage. It wasn’t like he wasn’t good for a few nights at a hotel if he needed to do a runner...

As if he could feel the direction of Martin’s thoughts in the way Martin’s body relaxed against his, Elias hummed contentedly. “It doesn’t have to be forever,” he promised, “Just for the moment. Let’s try.” Martin shifted, trying to roll over to look Elias in the face. Elias gripped him tighter in protest for just a moment then relented. Martin snuggled back in, resting his chin on Elias’s chest and looking up at him seriously. 

Elias looked down at him, nervous and expectant. His eyebrow raised as Martin struggled to find the words, to form his thoughts into something that expressed all of the emotions swirling inside him. “Okay,” he managed to croak eventually. And that sounded pathetically lukewarm about the whole affair, so he pushed up to kiss Elias, which went over rather better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this last chapter. I really underestimated how much harder I'd find wrangling three characters instead of two. 
> 
> I hope Peter is the mix of himbo/spooky ghost/(verbal) sparring partner that best suits your likings
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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